


Nothing with a Twist

by Giddygeek



Category: The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Canon-Typical Romance, Canon-Typical Violence, Episode Tag, Episode: s03e05 A Life in the Day, Episode: s03e13 Will You Play With Me?, Episode: s04e05 Escape From the Happy Place, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-08 03:11:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17973359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Giddygeek/pseuds/Giddygeek
Summary: “Give me my knight,” Eliot said. “And I’ll let you live.”Or: I'm just going to keep writing about these three episodes until I wear out my keyboard.





	Nothing with a Twist

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from a Vonnegut quote: Everything is nothing, with a twist. 
> 
> With gratitude to MissPamela and JanetCarter for beta reading. Of course, I apologize to everyone who let me into their life, never anticipating that one day I'd be dragging half-dead Magicians fics to their doorsteps once a week for beta reading. It has to slow down sometime, right? <3
> 
> ~

Eliot snuck silently through the monster’s temple. There were bodies in the otherwise-empty antechamber and more lining the hall, horrified faces turned up so that he couldn’t avoid seeing them. They didn’t and couldn’t stop him, but that wasn’t the point; scaring him, _horrifying_ him, weakening his will to fight was the point. 

Too little, too late. If the monster had wanted him to leave it alone, it shouldn’t have taken Quentin.

The inner sanctum glowed in the distance. Eliot could hear the rumble of a deep voice, and Quentin’s lighter voice answering it. 

The flat, carved stone in Eliot’s pack grew heavier with every step. There was a knife in the pack’s front pocket, and another pocket had water and food and an emergency kit, but they weighed nothing compared to the stone. Eliot thought he could feel it growing warmer and warmer, too, like it sensed its proximity to the monster.

The hall curved gently to the right. It branched off frequently and Eliot was glad for the light from the inner sanctum, although he supposed that the trail of bodies marked the route better than a GPS could have done. Without the bodies, without the light, the monster’s temple would have been a labyrinth.

As he rounded the last of the hall, the monster said, “Your friend is here, right now. Does he have some plan to save your life? Foolish. _Silly_.”

“My friend,” Quentin said, quiet, careful. “Eliot? Are you sure?”

The monster snorted. “Am I sure?” It raised its voice, calling out his name in its mocking sing-song, the intonation that stayed the same no matter who was its host. “Eliiiiot. We’re waaaiting.”

Eliot took off his pack and knelt to fish through it. His hand went to the stone without his having to take his eyes off the doorway of the inner sanctum; it was glowing and hot and hard to miss. He stood, leaving the pack where it was. Either they’d be able to come back for it later, or they wouldn’t be alive to need it.

“Fee fie foe fum, I smell the blood of a total idiot.”

Eliot stepped through the doorway. “And I smell the B.O. of someone who should’ve taken a shower six weeks ago,” he drawled, wrinkling his nose. 

The monster turned to him and stared at him with hot, glittering eyes. He stared back, taking it in. It was--well. It was bigger than he remembered from the day they’d reanimated it, but in the chaos, he had only seen it for a moment.

And in that moment, it had snatched up Quentin and disappeared. 

He glanced away from the monster and finally allowed himself to look at Quentin—Q was gaping at him, his face pale and tense. When their eyes met, Quentin exhaled sharply. His gaze dropped. His arms crossed over his chest, wrapped so tight he was almost hugging himself. Eliot wanted to offer to do that for him, but: monster. 

“Oh, hey Q,” he said casually instead. “Good to see you. I was hoping you’d be here for this part of the quest. It’s a long story, but I’ve missed you.”

It _was_ good to see Quentin; the real Quentin, not just a memory of him. He’d cut his hair and lost a little weight, which made his eyes look huge and tragic, but he tried to smile, and Eliot loved him for it.

The monster noticed. It growled at Eliot, long and low. “A long story. A _quest_ ,” it said mockingly. “I _hate_ books, but I know that the heart of a quest is a monster and a knight.” It reached out sharply for Quentin, claws glinting in the light.

Eliot lunged forward but couldn’t reach them in time; the monster closed its hands around Quentin’s chest and lifted him up. Quentin shoved at it, trying to push his way free, but it was so massive. Its remade body towered over him even as it held him up in midair. Its claws dug in and Quentin stilled. He dangled in its hands, limp and panting.

It looked at Eliot and its red eyes gleamed. Its lips curled back in a smile that showed fang. It shook Quentin lightly and he cried out, a pained sound, as its claws pierced his shirt.

It said, “I’m his monster.”

“I think you’ve fundamentally misunderstood the genre.” Eliot asked. He shook his head. “And you’re not giving me enough credit. I’ve been very cruel to him, you know.”

The monster snorted, red nostrils flaring. “I made him watch me murder more than a few innocent people, and twelve gods. I’ve made him help me do it. I’ve broken his bones. I told him you were dead.”

It licked its lips, savoring the memory. “That hurt more than the arm I broke.”

Eliot could see the memory of all that and more in Quentin’s face. The monster hadn’t mentioned the endless worry, the wrenching uncertainty—it couldn’t have, wouldn’t have been able to understand that the emotional torture it put Quentin through was as painful to him as the bloodshed and broken bones.

But Eliot understood.

“I broke his heart,” Eliot said. “And made him be my friend after I did it.”

Quentin closed his eyes.

Eliot held up the golden stone he’d carried into the monster’s lair. The huge room was full of old cobwebs, sand, new blood. Bodies—dead gods maybe, better to hope for than learn they were innocent bystanders—lay collapsed in the five corners of its inner sanctum, their blood dripping into channels on the floor. The monster stood with Quentin in the middle of the room under a soft white spotlight, on an island of marble swept clean for them.

Eliot wasn’t going to let this be their story.

He whispered a spell and the stone warmed in his hands, glowing with golden power. He approached them, kicking sand in the channels of blood as he went.

The monster flinched from the stone’s light, turning its head away.

“Give me my knight,” Eliot said, coldly. “And I’ll let you live.”

The monster hissed. Its claws dug into Quentin’s chest, threatening to break the skin, to crush him. Quentin struggled weakly, gasping, and turned his head to look at Eliot.

“Kill it,” he said, breathless and wheezing; he tried to inhale and choked as the monster squeezed him tighter. His eyes filled with panic but he flung a hand out in Eliot’s direction, reaching for the stone. With the last of his breath, he sighed, “Eliot, please.”

_Eliot, please._

“I can’t,” Eliot said. Even if he’d been less sure of his plan, he could never. Not when it would take Quentin out with it. Everything after this was built on the assumption that Quentin was alive. Nothing else mattered, not without that.

He crossed the last channel, stepped on Quentin and the monster’s marble island, into their light. The monster growled at him, its great head hanging low, but he ignored it. Eliot smiled at Quentin, tremulous and real. “I’m your monster, Q. And you’re my knight. This is our story, not his.”

He withdrew his magic from the stone, left it lifeless and gray in his hands. “Take it,” he said. “Leave him. Go.” 

The monster stood in confusion, its head tilted. It smelled like barbecued meat left out to rot in the sun. Its plated skin shone under the light. It considered Eliot’s offer, while Eliot’s heart pounded in his chest. Quentin was still conscious, but barely; he watched Eliot with intense focus, like a man who knew he’d said his last word and was looking at the last face he’d ever see.

Eliot stood tall, shoulders back, hip cocked. He kept his gaze on Quentin’s, trying to tell him everything all at once; every apology, every promise, every sweet word and every word that bit. Quentin wasn’t right, they were going to get out of this—but just in case. Just because.

Quentin smiled.

The monster flung him to the ground as casually as flicking ash off a cigarette. Quentin made a hurt noise and went skidding out of the light, through a channel of blood. He rolled onto his side, facing them, and curled around himself with a groan. 

Eliot stood his ground, stone in his hand.

“Do you know what you’re trading?” The monster leaned down to look Eliot in the eye. “Do you know what you have?”

“A scale.” Eliot held it up again. “A seal. The last piece of you. The final ward against you. I could kill you with it, or give it to you and let you walk away whole.” 

“More than just whole, Eliot. Once I put that in place, I’ll be undefeatable. Infinite.” The monster stepped closer to Quentin, curled and coughing on the rocky ground, but it looked at the stone with hungry eyes. “I can play however I want, and you’ll never be able to stop me. Why would you trade that for him? What game are _you_ playing?”

“No game,” Eliot said. “I know what I want. I’m willing to offer you this in exchange for my friend. Do you want to take the deal or not?”

The monster nudged Quentin with its foot but didn’t take its eyes off Eliot. It said, soft and slow, its voice a stone grinding against bone, “I…want…both.”

Eliot swallowed. “It’s this or nothing.”

The monster whined, low in its throat, before finally turning its head to look at Quentin. “I want both,” it said sullenly. “I want my scale, and I want him. I _need_ both.”

Quentin looked back up at it and shook his head. “I’ve told you a thousand times, I’ll kill you if you keep me,” he rasped, and the words had a ring to them, like magic, even as they made him cough. “I’ll find a way.” He didn’t look or sound like he could kill a fly, but the monster recoiled as if stung, then gathered itself and crouched beside him. Quentin didn’t move, just following it with his steady eyes. 

“I’ll take my scale now and come back for you later,” the monster promised sweetly. “Don’t forget me. I would hate to have to start our games all over.”

Quentin held its gaze. “I’ll forget you the second you’re gone.”

It brushed a claw over his face, tapped his temple. “I’ll always be here, Quentin,” it said. “You’ll never get rid of me.” It smiled. “But we can start again, if you want to pretend otherwise. That’s the first fun idea you’ve had in _forever_.” 

It stood and gestured to Eliot. “I’ll play your game, for now,” it said. “But after this, you and I will play my new game. It’s called hide and bleed. Do you think you’re ready?”

Eliot rolled his eyes. “Let me guess, I do all the hiding and the bleeding? I’d rather milk a centaur. Here, catch.” He chucked the stone at it and the monster caught it. It turned the stone over, examining it. The stone’s color shifted, lighting up again, first the carvings and then the entire surface, until it glowed as red as the monster’s eyes.

The monster lifted its other arm. There was a patch underneath where its flesh showed, pale gray and iridescent. It slid the stone into place, with a hiss like it hurt, and the red light pulsed three times, then flared out across the temple. Eliot flinched and Quentin fell back, and then the light faded. The stone was just a scale, as gray as the others.

The monster looked up. It caught Eliot’s eyes. It rose and smiled. “Feels good,” it said appreciatively, rolling its shoulders. “Thank you for giving it to me. Of course, I’m going to kill you now anyway—"

But there was a noise in the antechamber. A werewolf, howling, furious and wild. Margo shouting, “Come out, come out, wherever you are, you stupid sack of shit!”

Eliot smirked. “Looks like this story also has some heroes.” 

The monster hesitated, trying to stare him down. “The boring toys first,” it decided, and flung itself over the channels, to the arched door that led down the long hallway to the antechamber.

Eliot dropped to one knee beside Quentin and started pulling him up, drawing Quentin’s arm over his shoulder. Quentin hung limp against him, looking up at him with huge, wondering eyes, his mouth tight. “It will kill us all,” he said. “If Julia had done what I asked, it would have just taken me and left you alone.”

“Well, very sorry, but I’m your monster now, and I’m too selfish to let you make that kind of sacrifice,” Eliot said. He hugged Quentin to him, joyful. “Besides, you shouldn’t be so sure that we’re dead. Hear them out there?”

A cacophony of noises: the monster shrieking, the werewolf howling, Penny laughing as an explosion went off. He had some kind of time bomb; Eliot hadn’t asked too many questions, since even being near it had made his head hurt. The women’s voices rose: Alice, Margo, and Kady shouting a spell, Julia’s voice working a different spell, almost singing, a descant above it all.

“It’s _invulnerable_ ,” Quentin said, despairing.

Eliot brushed Quentin’s hair back—it needed to be washed, but he wanted to put his hands in it anyway. He ran his thumbs over Quentin’s cheekbones, looking into his eyes and then letting his gaze follow his hands. There was an almost frantic need to take Quentin in all at once, and look at him forever. He had a cut on his cheek, and a bruise on his throat, and the one flaw in this plan was that Eliot wouldn’t get to land the killing blow against the monster. “Julia’s invulnerable. Seems like an even match.”

Quentin grabbed one of Eliot’s wrists, and Eliot looked back into his eyes. “An even match? Against _him_?”

“Well, who can be sure before she tries, I guess, but it took you from us, which made us too furious to care,” Eliot said, and he stood, drawing Quentin up with him. 

Quentin went, leaning against him, eyes searching his. He let Eliot run his hands over his torso, feeling every hole and tear in his double-layer of shirts, feeling the skin underneath whole and smooth. But he was bruised, some swelling over his ribs in bands the shape of the monster’s claws.

Outside, in the antechamber, the chaos seemed to be reaching a peak. Inside, it was quiet, just the two of them breathing, Eliot murmuring magic over every inch of Quentin’s skin, until the swelling subsided and Quentin breathed easier.

Eliot drew back, but just far enough to take Quentin’s head in his hands again, thumbs running across his cheekbones, fingers wrapping and interlacing on the nape of Quentin’s neck. He looked down into Quentin’s eyes and smiled.

“Hi Q,” he said. “I have so much I need to tell you, but can I kiss you first?”

Quentin jerked away. There was a flash of pain in his eyes, familiar and sad; Eliot had seen that look before, and ignored it, but never again.

“No, no,” he said, tugging Quentin closer, pitching his voice low and dark, promising. “It’s not like that, Q. Not just because you’re the only one here. Because I love you. Let me prove it to you.”

His eyes searched Quentin’s. Quentin studied him in return, unsure. Fuck, of course he was unsure; how many times had he been rejected, how often had Eliot pulled him close and then kicked him away? But not this time. Not again.

_Come on, Q. Believe it._

And then, carefully, Quentin reached out to hold him back. He wrapped his arms around Eliot’s waist and relaxed, just a little, enough to put them in contact from chest to knee. Eliot let his breath out and tangled his hands in Quentin’s hair, tilting his head back to just the right angle.

“It might, you know, it could take a while,” Quentin said, his face serious and somber, but a hint of light warming his eyes. “To convince me. It might…take time. Time we may not have, right?”

His bravery and generosity made Eliot feel more wrung out than fighting a dozen monsters could ever, and more satisfied than he’d ever been. 

So, as the fight raged on outside, Eliot leaned down and whispered against Quentin’s parted lips, “That’s all right, Q. I promise you that we have all the time in the world.”


End file.
